


The Couch Collection

by mightbewriting



Series: The World of Wait and Hope [5]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, Fluff and Smut, Married Couple, Pregnancy, Romance, theo has a vendetta against our favorite sofa
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-07
Updated: 2021-01-14
Packaged: 2021-03-03 20:47:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,671
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24581815
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mightbewriting/pseuds/mightbewriting
Summary: A collection of stories involving the infamous green and/or red tufted velvet sofa from Wait and Hope. With such an illustrious history, you can expect laughter, tears, sex, and several significant in between scenes from the stories you already know. Tags, characters, and warnings will be updated as more scenes are added.If you don't want to be spoiled, read the entire ofThe World Wait and Hope Seriesfirst! Different chapters will have different spoiler warnings.
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy
Series: The World of Wait and Hope [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1737079
Comments: 135
Kudos: 1167





	1. January 2008

**Author's Note:**

> Stories in this collection will be titled by month and year to help orient you! The events of Beginning and End took place from January 2002 to December 2005. The events of Wait and Hope took place from January 2007 to November 2007, with the final chapter in December 2012. There will be no entries for any events happening after January 2013.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains spoilers for Wait and Hope!
> 
> Our first entry is an unapologetically fluffy look at something heavily alluded to in November 2007, finally confirmed in early January! Many beta thanks on this first story to icepower55 and persephone_stone! Thank you for saving me from myself!

**January 2008**

Hermione fidgeted on her burgundy sofa, crossing and uncrossing her legs, tucking an ankle beneath her, untucking it. She’d left work early after feeling unwell most of the morning: a touch nauseous, brain hazy. She had come back to the flat, fixed herself a cup of tea, and cozied up on the velvet sofa with a book and a blanket. Crookshanks provided a nominal amount of moral support, curled into the knitted valleys in her blanket. He bumped at her hand with his ginger head every time she dared to take a sip of her tea and pause her scratching behind his ears, coming dangerously close to spilling on several occasions.

But then— she had _the idea_. Not a new concept for her, generally speaking. At any given moment, dozens of ideas had a tendency to rattle and roll around the inside of her head, vying for attention, floating to the forefront, sorted by order of importance and urgency.

This particular idea, as soon as she’d thought it, rose immediately to the top of both importance and urgency.

She nearly jumped off the sofa, sending a disgruntled Crookshanks slinking into another room. Hermione winced, sending him a briefly contrite look. But her brain had already kicked into another gear: a top spinning out of control inside her head, banging at the inside of her skull, ricocheting out of control. 

She went to the bedroom first, searching the piles of medical books she kept in precarious towers, still awaiting organization. Theo had dropped them off, along with several hundred others, as a Christmas gift to replace the ones she’d lost in the fire. She found a general textbook on medical spells, thumbed through the index and, upon finding the exact spell she needed, darted to the bathroom and shut the door behind her.

Home alone, and yet she still felt like she needed to close the door, to create some kind of contained space for what might very well turn into a small meltdown. She hadn’t really expected. She knew it could happen— but she’d been fully prepared for it to take more _time_. 

She took a deep breath, unwilling to meet her own gaze in the mirror. She cast the spell. She released the breath.

She started crying.

She almost sent a Patronus to Draco asking if he could leave work early. _Almost_. But the workday was nearly over; he’d be home soon enough. For now, she needed a moment to herself. She needed to sink into the plush mat on the bathroom floor and let herself cry. She needed to experience the fear and the surprise and the unfiltered kind of joy that had just annihilated her entire previous understanding of the feeling. 

Crookshanks pawed at the bathroom door. She cracked it with a wandless spell, letting him push his way in. He promptly settled between her crossed legs as she wrangled her emotions under control.

“Oh, Crooks,” she said, voice barely above a whisper. She leaned down, burying her face in his orange fur and forcing him into a hug. “I can’t believe it,” she said into the fluff at his neck. Her following breath came out as part-laugh, part-sob: all-overwhelmed.

Hermione returned to the red velvet sofa, crossing and uncrossing her legs again, over and over: waiting.

With a green flash of the Floo, Draco returned. Her calm visage crumbled at the sight of him, no longer capable of corralling the careful control she’d forced over her emotions. His step faltered, a half-second of confusion blurring his usual demeanor when he saw her. She must have been quite the sight. She wouldn’t have been surprised if her eyes were red, face a bit puffy, hair a little frazzled. Plus she’d curled herself deep into a blanket cocoon, cushioning herself with comfort as she continued to process. 

Draco glanced at the clock. He always returned home from work before she did; she could feel his rapid thinking, assessing the scene he’d just walked in on.

“Are you alright?” he asked, taking two deep strides from the fireplace, crouching beside her.

Hermione’s throat closed up, overwhelmed and struggling to find her words. He looked so worried. She wanted to reassure him, truly. But the moment his gray eyes, flooded with concern, were level with hers, she felt more tears stinging at her sinuses. Her vision blurred.

“Hermione?” he asked, the pitch in his voice rising as he reached out, hand smoothing the curls at her temple.

“I’m ok,” she said. “I—” 

How could she say it? How could she tell him? They'd been through so much change already, dealt with more than most, and now it would all change again. But at least this time they’d had a choice in the matter.

His hand dropped from her hair, finding hers. His brows bunched together, a deep line of worry bisecting his forehead. The intensity of it nearly broke her in half. Gods, she loved him.

“Draco,” she said, vacancies inside her head filling with the prospect of this future. “I’m pregnant.”

He’d been crouched, poised on the balls of his feet, hovering in front of her.

He fell to his knees at her words, torso pressed against the edge of the sofa, leaning into her. The worry in his face remained steadfast, a slight wobble to his head as if he were shaking it to himself, countering whatever thoughts erupted inside his head.

Hermione’s heart pounded in her chest as she watched him. He still hadn’t said anything, face worryingly blank as if he’d descended into his Occlumency, but she knew he hadn’t; she could tell. Everything behind his eyes was warm and living and in beautiful motion. Briefly, she wondered if he even believed her, if he knew how. 

“I haven’t been feeling well,” she said, voice so quiet he may very well have to read her lips to glean her meaning. “I performed a diagnostic spell when I realized what it could—”

He kissed her, so hard and so fast that she barely had time to register the weight of him as he practically crawled into her lap, pressing her against the cushion behind her head. 

“Oh my gods,” he said against her lips, one hand cradling her face, the other grappling with the blanket between them. “I can’t breathe, can you breathe?” He laughed, perfect proof that he could breathe just fine. He threw the blanket to the floor.

He pressed his forehead to hers, eyes closed. She realized in a daze that he was right; breathing had become quite difficult. She uncurled her legs from beneath her, falling back as he dropped frantic kisses along her jaw, her neck, her clavicle.

He moved lower, kissing his way down her breasts, across her ribs. When he reached the hem of her shirt, he lifted it, suddenly very still. He stared at her stomach. It looked as it always did, but soon, everything would be different. 

“Fuck,” he whispered, hot breath coasting across her skin. Hermione shivered. She could feel goosebumps erupting; whether from his proximity or the temperature in the room, she couldn’t tell. When one of his hands trailed along her ribs and to the dip at her hip bones, she strongly began to suspect the former.

“Eloquent,” she said with a smile, watching as he continued to admire her stomach, peppering it with kisses. She couldn’t help but squirm under his attention, simultaneously self-aware and self-conscious.

He dropped his forehead to her sternum. She watched the rise and fall of his shoulders: a lift, a pause, a dip, in time with his steady breathing against her skin. She felt a small shudder, watched it too, and when he lifted his head his eyes were watery, voice breaking when he spoke.

“Fuck,” he said again. He surged up, capturing her mouth. Hermione gasped against his lips, feeling her own tears welling. He broke away just enough to cradle her jaw with a shaky hand, the other walking up her ribs with light fingertips. “Fuck, I love you so much.”

Hermione pulled her hand from its place against his chest, wiping away the tear on his cheek. She swallowed against the lump in her throat, tight and constricting, trying to strangle her with its intensity. It still didn’t feel real, none of it. Not after crying on her bathroom floor or telling her understandably shell-shocked husband. She ran her hand from his cheek to the back of his neck, savoring his small shiver as his eyes fell shut under the pressure of her nails dragging through his hair.

“You’re going to be a dad,” she said, arching against him, pulling his face to hers. She caught another _fuck_ breathed out on a puff of air before his mouth met hers again, ramping up the temperature in the room by several degrees through a single possessive swipe of his tongue, plying her mouth open and melting her beneath his touch. The hand at her side pushed her shirt higher, exposing a bra Pansy Parkinson would almost certainly despise. 

“You’ll be a fantastic mum,” his breath caught against her neck where he’d been speaking into the juncture beneath her ear. “Gods, we’re making— we made. Fucking _ours_.”

Hermione’s giggle stalled when his fingers reached for the cup of her bra, palming her breast and shooting heat, desire, need straight through her. Instead of a giggle, a quiet whimper slipped from her mouth. The sound of it caught and scraped in her lungs, from beneath the line of his thumb resting against the hollow at the base of her throat. She could feel her pulse hammering against it, rapid and raging and begging for him to touch her: somewhere, anywhere, everywhere.

Snapped into action by that sudden imperative, Hermione reached for his shirt. She unbuttoned, she clawed, she tasted every inch of his freshly exposed skin in between desperate attempts to catch her breath. His quick hands divested her of her blouse, halting her exploration of his chest. His mouth was relentless: sucking and lapping along her neck, behind her ear, beneath her jaw, groaning into her pulse point as he undid the clasp to her bra.

She was sure she made a noise, too: perhaps a response in the form of a soft gasp, reacting to the new chill against her skin, or the fire in his fingers, or the delectable weight against her hips, erection grinding a dizzying heat into her core. His hands wandered, wickedly, as his palms spread wide, dragging along her ribs, pausing across her stomach, wrapping around her hips. His fingers curled beneath her waistband, sliding her skirt and knickers down in a single motion. Distantly, as her head fell back against the arm of the sofa, she wondered when he’d found the zip.

Draco shifted, mouth following the path his hands had just taken: a dual assault, a secondary attack, as if the first wave hadn’t been enough to reduce her to incoherency.

She bit too hard at the inside of her lip, wincing at the tiny blossom of pain. But she couldn’t seem to unclench, uncoil, not when Draco had apparently made it his mission to wind her body tighter, tense and taut, until she shattered. 

He teased at her nipple with his teeth, then closed his mouth around it, a gentle drag and pull against sensitive flesh. Hermione threw a hand over her head and gripped the curved arm of the sofa, needing some kind of anchor as he dragged her out to sea, intent on drowning.

She felt his chuckle against her skin more than she heard it, a staccato of breath coasting hot and dangerous as he moved lower to drop kisses beneath the curve of her breast, against her ribs, on the flat of her stomach— reverent, there— and on each of her hip bones. She wanted to tell him it wasn’t funny, that he shouldn’t be allowed to draw her so deep into a pool of desire where she could do little else but gasp for air. But her ability to say anything even remotely articulate disintegrated in his grip, hands strong and sure beneath her knees as he positioned her just so, just— _oh_. 

He kissed the juncture of her thigh; she might have moved, squirmed either into or away from his touch, if not for his hands holding her steady. His gaze, when he looked at her, locked her in place. Gods, she might melt from that and that alone; from the mercury in his eyes, swirling and deadly if she dared reach for it. 

He dropped another kiss to the same spot, eyes never leaving hers, smirk curving at the corner of his mouth. That damned dimple betrayed his amusement as she struggled not to keen and rock and let every vertebra in her spine arch in anticipation.

He stilled, stare serious as he watched her. A cloud of quiet engulfed them, only the nearby crackle of flames from the fireplace and the shaky, unsteady quality in the gusts of Hermione’s breath reminded her that time had not, in fact, stopped altogether.

But it certainly felt like it: his mouth paused against her skin and she, a pane of glass, with cracks spiderwebbing away from every place his fingers touched, so very near a shatter. He pressed against her hips, fingers digging into her flesh, cracks advancing. Her understanding of time reconnected, surging forward as he put his mouth on her, tongue laving sweet stretches and quick strikes against her clit: a caustic climb encouraging more cracks, forcing sound from her throat, urging her hands to his hair. 

Her breath shook, quivering inside her chest, a solid object she could only tacitly control. Her fingers flexed, tangled in the soft, white blonde strands of his hair, delivering ruin to the composed style he kept it in. She preferred it like this, between her fingers and deliciously disheveled. He groaned against her, hot breath and vibrating sound rippling across her sensitive nerves already set aflame. 

She made a feeble, broken sound, arching against him: desperate, dying for more. She heard him mumbling something against her core, soft praises as he slipped a digit— then two— inside her, eliciting a moan, mingled with his words that danced through her: _lovely, beautiful, mine._

“Please,” she tried to say, voice barely audible in a desperate plea. His chuckle shot straight through her, hands falling from his hair as she rocked into his hand, his mouth, her body somehow set on fire despite feeling awash, drowning. 

“Please what, darling?” Even the shape of his words wound her tighter, glass prepared to shatter.

Oh, she could kill him. She could feel his smirk imprinted against her skin as his tongue delivered a deadly coordinated attack, fingers twisting inside her, pressing, wringing a whimper from her throat.

“Please, Draco.” That was enough, and it was all she was capable of. 

He pressed another kiss to the inside of her thigh before sitting up, depositing his unbuttoned shirt on the floor and unbuckling his belt, discarding his trousers. Hermione watched from the haze of arousal he’d dropped her into, lip back between her teeth, breath coming in pants as he returned to her, fully unclothed. 

Hermione reached up, hand at his jaw, savoring her awe as he leaned into her touch. His eyes fell shut, pale lashes coming together. She curled her finger at the nape of his neck, encouraging him closer, silently begging for more contact. His eyes opened again as he pressed his forehead to hers, dropping a tiny kiss at the corner of her mouth.

“I know you don’t need me to,” he said, body pressing against hers. The friction was enough to remind Hermione of the flames racing along her veins, cracks sprawling, spreading. “But I’m going to take care of you”— she met his words with a kiss— “both of you.” She smiled against his mouth, their words merged on lips, breath, tongue, and teeth. Precious, private words, shared through touch.

“I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to let you.”

He shifted, kissing her again, and this time when he rocked his hips, he sank into her, his hard length filling the ache left behind in the absence of his mouth and fingers. Hermione lifted her hips, meeting him as her hands gripped at his hair, his neck, the long, taut tendons running from shoulder to spine.

His hand on her hip gripped harder, pulling her close and holding her steady. He set an easy pace, building, just enough to stoke the flames, to bring her back to the place she’d been beneath his mouth and tongue. She moved with him, desperate for as much friction, as much touch, as imaginable; she couldn’t possibly get enough.

He breathed heavy against her neck, every distinguishable sound in the room narrowed down to his panting near her ear. A slight flush crawled up his chest and neck, proof he’d soon shatter, too. This thing between them: delicate as glass and they kept cracking at it. 

“More,” she begged. “ _Please._ ”

He snapped his hips— immediate acquiescence, like he’d been waiting for the request— and released a low growl against her neck. She felt his teeth dragging along the muscles there, mouth suckling, probably leaving a mark but she couldn’t spare a single thought to care. And then his other hand moved between them, fingers providing pressure right where she needed it: movement timed with the roll of his hips, speed paced with her increasing need. He’d set her on fire, she was sure of it.

Hermione didn’t curse much or often, but as his fingers ramped her pleasure higher, she couldn’t help the muffled _fuck_ that fell from her lips, carried on a tight, barely released breath. 

It only served as encouragement; he moved faster, pressure more insistent and, in one final crack, she shattered. She’d forgotten to breathe, dizzying heat and violent pleasure erupting from her core, rolling outward in a wave that capsized her senses and drowned her. Her head fell back, face contorted as a whole smattering of muscles— from the curling of her toes to the shuttering of her lids— clenched, writhing in her own skin. 

Distantly, she felt his hand find her throat, trailing the curved, exposed line of it as her forehead pressed against the sofa’s arm. Mouth replaced fingers, lips attached to her neck as he increased his pace, arms winding around her: in her hair, encircling her waist.

Her shattered pieces began to reassemble, just in time to catch his muffled praises against her throat: “So good— so fucking, _Hermione_ —” And he shattered, too.

He collapsed onto her, just for a beat, before he groaned and pulled away, lifting and bringing her to rest atop him as he fell back against the sofa. She let out a small laugh, still dizzy and delirious and so, so happy curled against him. She reached for the blanket on the floor and pulled it to cover them.

“Didn’t want to crush you,” he said, eyes closed, his entire countenance sleepy and sated. “Precious cargo and all.” His wandering fingers danced down her sides, coming to rest at her stomach.

“So you’re excited?” she asked as her heart pounded against her ribs. His laugh rumbled beneath her: a strangely safe, comforting feeling. He opened his eyes, instantly connecting with her own.

“Hermione, I literally could not resist fucking you into these cushions the moment you told me.” He leaned forward and kissed her through the rising blush she desperately wished she could control. “I think it’s safe to say I’m extremely excited.” He brushed a curl from her face, a flicker of something uncertain flashing behind his eyes.

“And you?” he asked. A quiet question. “Are you excited? It’s not too much, too soon?”

Hermione smiled, forcing certainty and confidence into every muscle, willing him to see it in her face. She pressed her cheek against his chest, nuzzling against him. She let her eyes close, feeling so at _home_ she nearly wanted to cry.

“My _only_ concern is over how we’ll ever find an acceptable constellation to saddle our poor child with.”

His laugh rumbled beneath her again before it stilled.

“Our child,” he breathed.

She hummed in agreement. “Ours.”


	2. January 2004

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains spoilers for Beginning and End!  
> This short scene extension takes place during Draco and Hermione's housewarming gathering at the beginning of 2004.

**January 2004**

“Right there, right on that sofa. I’m telling you, Potter; you don’t want to sit there.”

Theo eyed the furniture in question, skin buzzing, stomach unsettled, a warm tide of liquor keeping him steady, keeping him sane. He looked down at his drink: almost empty. With a shrug, he knocked it back. Might as well finish one to prepare for another. Perhaps Blaise already had a refill ready—somewhere. Theo wasn’t sure where.

Harry Potter’s sigh pulled Theo back to the conversation he’d been maybe-trying-to-initiate, maybe-trying-to-avoid. Both his vision and his conversational distinctions had blurred. He’d meant his words as a warning, an attempt at inter-house solidarity. After all, the _things Theo had seen_ on that sofa. He resisted the impulse to shudder; he suspected Potter wouldn’t appreciate the drama of it all.

Inexplicably, Potter sank further into the cushions, balancing a beer on his knee with what looked like almost no effort. He blew out a breath, looking up at Theo with an offensive amount of suspicion hiding behind his glasses. “What was right here, exactly?”

“Bodily fluids, mostly. And an extremely pale arse.”

At that, Potter had the decency to raise his brows.

“Well, that’s more than I needed to know.”

“Then _why_ are you still sitting there?” 

_Why_ spilled out of Theo not unlike a toppled drink—speaking of, he still needed another—petulant and a bit whinging. Theo couldn’t fathom why Potter hadn’t leapt to his feet in search of a new place to sit.

Potter shook his head, sipped his drink. “I’m sure they cleaned it.”

Theo whirled, searching the clustered bodies milling around Draco’s living room for a familiar face, a specific familiar face that liked to deliver Theo drinks when he was in need. Alas, Blaise was nowhere to be found. Theo found this both irritating and unusual. Theo desperately needed a refill on his whisky if Potter wanted to suggest that a _scourgify_ satisfied the requirements for acceptable seating options.

Lacking an avenue for a drink refill, Theo turned back to Potter. 

Theo opened his jaw, closed his jaw, made a frightful, strangled noise that startled even him, then tried again.

“I’m not sure you understood me correctly, Potter.” Theo bristled at the sigh Potter loosed. “The cushion you are currently occupying has been entirely contaminated by—I mean, if that’s just what I _saw_ imagine what other sorts of—actually, perhaps we shouldn’t imagine—oh, but now I already am—” Theo broke off, startled by a familiar presence swapping his empty tumbler for a full one. He blinked, twisted, and watched Blaise disappear again, several drinks hovering in a strange alcoholic orbit around him as he delivered refills. 

Theo’s intentions of sparing Potter the trauma of occupying a particularly offensive piece of antique Malfoy furniture evaporated when his gaze landed on the very pale arse in question. 

Draco wore a glare that said he was not amused. 

“Well, this has been fun, Potter,” Theo said, raising his glass.

The next moment, Draco had him looped by the elbow, pulling Theo towards the door. 


	3. September 2008

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains spoilers for Picked and Planted!  
> This scene takes place three months after the end of Picked and Planted. More importantly, this scene is dedicated to the one, the only, the absolute greatest: smozark! Happy birthday, friend!!

**September 2008**

“Always the two of you on that sofa.” 

Pansy dusted several green cinders from her cloak, genuinely surprised the Floo grate had been left unlocked and she hadn’t had to resort to irritated owl correspondence. Although, considering the general air of exhaustion lingering about, Pansy suspected that delirious oversight might have played a part. 

“Three of us, actually, Pans.” Draco didn’t even lift his head from where it rested on the arm of the sofa. Granger hadn’t moved either, wedged against his chest with a baby resting on hers. Truthfully, the sight was a bit nauseating.

Pansy waved a dismissive hand and hung her cloak by the door. “Yes, I know. Technicalities and all that.” 

Granger brushed several blond strands of hair along Scorpius’s skull, so fine and fair that Pansy only knew they existed from having held him at the hospital. “What brings you here, Pansy?” she asked.

“It’s nice that he’s not crying. That’s new.”

Draco cracked an eye open, peering at her. “He’s not so bad about crying, at least according to Ginny. She’s informed us it could be much worse.”

Pansy narrowed her eyes.

“Are you here to wake him up so he cries more?” Granger asked. “If so, I feel I must inform you that Ginny is my best friend.”

“Incorrect,” Pansy said, just shy of a snap. “I’m actually here as proof that I am, in fact, your best friend. It’s your birthday, Granger.”

“Yesterday was my birthday. Shouldn’t my best friend know that?”

“Yes, well, Friday didn’t work for me, so today it is.”

“And what is today?”

“A day off. I’m willing to watch your offspring.”

Draco lifted his head, interjecting himself into the back-and-forth Pansy and Granger had been carrying on while he slept or meditated or whatever it was he was doing. “He’s only a month old, Pansy.”

“And you clearly need a break. You haven’t responded to any of my owls.”

“I’m not even sure I remember getting any owls,” Granger said, tilting her head against Draco’s chest as if to inquire about his recollection as well. “Besides,” she continued. “I don’t think we’re ready to go out without him just yet.”

Pansy almost rolled her eyes. But, all things considered, she could forgive these poor, sleep-deprived fools she called friends for thinking she had no plan.

“I assumed as much,” she said. “I’m not suggesting you go anywhere. I’m just here to watch him. Give you two a break to shower—please shower—and, I don’t know. Read or something. You two seem to enjoy reading a lot. Boring, if you ask me—”

“But we didn’t,” Draco said, interrupting her.

“But you didn’t. You never do. It’s highly upsetting, your disinterest in my opinions on most things. I have spectacular opinions.”

Granger lifted her head off Draco’s chest, the rest of her body remained oddly still as she presumably tried to avoid jostling her sleeping newborn. 

“I could have a nap,” Granger said. “I’ve never really liked naps before, but—gods, what I would do for a nap right about now.”

Pansy resisted the urge to recoil at the casual intimacy with which Draco dragged his knuckles along Granger’s upper arm. Honestly, they had no inhibitions. 

“Pansy, do you—well, have you ever—have you watched a baby before?” Granger asked, letting her head rest on Draco's chest again. 

Scorpius moved, shifting slightly, and even Pansy held her breath in anticipation of something, perhaps a wail. 

Pansy sighed. “I’m offended, Granger. But, no. I have not. Which is why I thought I’d bring along someone to help.”

“Who in the world could you—” Draco started, breaking off when Pansy lifted a single finger, telling him to wait. She turned, threw another pinch of Floo powder in the fireplace, and did a quick trip to her flat and back again, this time, with Neville Longbottom on her arm.

Finally, both Granger and Draco sat up. Draco cleared his throat and smoothed his hair as Granger juggled a baby while trying to adjust the baggy, ill-fitting jumper sliding off her shoulder.

“Neville! Hi, we—weren’t expecting any company,” Granger said as she ran a hand through her curls.

“Good to know I’m not company.” Pansy tried to corral the distaste that crept into her tone, her shoe tapped in an irritable rhythm against hardwoods. Well, against imitation hardwoods, if she had to guess.

Draco’s head tilted. “I didn’t know you two knew each other.”

Pansy leaned, letting her shoulder brush Neville’s arm. He shifted, leaning into her before he turned.

Pansy looked up, only to find a somewhat exasperated smile planted on his face. That, and a gleam in his eyes that betrayed his suspicion. 

She ignored his silent inquiry. “I haven’t gotten to it, yet,” she said. “Since they’re your friends, too, I thought perhaps you’d want to be here for it.”

“That’s very thoughtful of you, Pansy,” Neville said, suspicion shrinking.

His praise, his appreciation, his rich tone and kind eyes, washed over her and rooted her, briefly, to her spot. “Gross. Not in public—Merlin.” Neville only laughed. Pansy cleared her throat. “Yes, I do know Neville. We’re betrothed, actually.”

“Engaged,” Neville corrected. Pansy stared at a stack of books. If weaponizing one’s very pointed heels against one’s very irritating betrothed wasn’t so frowned upon, Pansy might have stomped her foot overtop his leather boots just then. “I thought we’d agreed on ‘engaged,’” he said.

Pansy considered the merit in abandoning her attempted babysitting and returning to her safe, sovereign borders. Neville could pay her tribute with his strong hands and his supple tongue, and Pansy wouldn’t have to endure what she assumed were uncomfortably shocked faces on a red velvet sofa across from her.

She looked up at Neville, narrowing her eyes and daring him with a look to point out her flicker of indecision. He only smiled. 

Pansy rolled her eyes and refused to retreat. Risking a glance across the room, she confirmed the expected befuddled expressions.

“Ah—” Draco started, reaching to rub the back of his neck. “When—did this…” His words trailed.

“A couple of months ago,” Pansy clipped. “Near the end of June. We’ve been taking some time for ourselves, so we didn’t tell you right away. And then, well”—she gestured to Scorpius—“this one made his grand appearance in the world. You’ve had a lot going on, obviously. I—Neville— _we_ didn’t want to overwhelm.”

“This isn’t a—” Hermione started, shifting her gaze from Pansy to Draco to Neville. “You’re serious?”

“Serious enough that I’ve endured several disagreements over floral arrangements.” Neville said it with good humor, with a laugh, but irritation flooded Pansy, regardless. 

“He has _opinions.”_

“I’m a Herbologist, Pansy, of course I have opinions.” His palm grazed her lower back when he spoke. His words suggested sustained warfare, but his touch spoke of a peace treaty. It was unfair, honestly, combining such things. It left Pansy confused, torn between anger and affection.

“You,” Draco said with a dazed, idiotic look on his face. “And Neville Longbottom?”

“Should I be offended?” Neville asked, addressing Hermione.

“Not sure,” she answered, glancing at Draco. “I can’t tell if he means to insult you or Pansy.”

“I don’t mean to insult anyone. I’m just—well, I’m a bit shocked.”

Pansy tapped her foot again, crossing her arms. “So, do you the two of you want to take a little time for yourselves or…? I’m trying to be nice here; this is a birthday present. The sort of present one best friend gives _another_ best friend when she clearly needs to wash her hair and do some skincare. And practice her under-eye blurring spells. And perhaps put on something not contaminated with spit-up.”

Scorpius wriggled in Granger’s arms. She spilled soothing sounds as she bounced him, lulling. She looked at Neville. “You have experience with newborns?”

“Beyond James and Albus? Not really.” He turned to Pansy. “Did you tell them I had experience?”

“Of course not. I only implied an advanced skillset.”

Draco’s brows drew together, eyes locked on the bundle in Granger’s arms as if it were the most precious thing in the world. Pansy could suppose, assumed at least, that such an assessment didn’t land too far from the truth.

Granger released a breath accompanied by a small shrug. “He’s eaten recently; he’s mostly asleep. We could…lay down for a bit. And we’d be right here if they need anything.” 

Neville might not have been insulted by Draco’s earlier implications, but his present hesitance certainly offended Pansy. She’d held Scorpius in a supervised manner before, even enjoyed it a bit if she wanted to indulge in some self-awareness. 

Draco muttered something that sounded like reluctant acquiescence as Granger stood. She navigated around several stacks of books and came to a stop in front of Pansy and Neville. 

Pansy didn’t care for the sinking, disappointed feeling weighing her down as Granger approached. Pansy didn’t want it to matter to her that despite how debilitatingly serious she was the vast majority of the time, in serious circumstances she often felt like a joke. _Pansy can’t watch a baby. Backup is required._

Her heart jumped when Granger slid Scorpius into her arms. She’d expected, wholly and completely, for Neville to end up with the responsibility.

“I trust you, Pansy,” Granger said with an annoyingly generous smile. “Thank you for this.”

A most unbecoming sting welled water in Pansy’s eyes. Granger graciously did not comment. Instead, she said, “Maybe after we’ve relaxed we could have some tea—chat for a bit? I’d like to know more about”—with her arms now free, Granger gestured between Pansy and Neville—“this development.”

Pansy swallowed, stiff and uncomfortable as she rocked the child in her arms, yet irritatingly pleased that she’d been given the chance. 

As Draco and Granger disappeared into the corridor, the distant click of a strike plate marked their retreat to temporary relaxation. Neville’s hand landed on Pansy’s shoulder: a soft squeeze. 

“Not to say I told you so, but—I knew you wouldn’t need me.”

Pansy scoffed. “I’ll allow the gloat this once. But—it was time they knew about us too, don’t you think? I have a wedding to plan and I’ll need my maid—or, I suppose, _matron—_ of honor’s assistance.”

Neville laughed, settling into an armchair and making himself at home.

“You haven’t even asked her yet.”

Despite the baby cradled in her arms and the gentle sway monopolizing Pansy’s momentum, she shot Neville an unamused glare. It was as if he thought Granger had a choice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks and much love to HouseElfPsychiatrist for her beta support on this story!

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you've enjoyed reading! Comments and kudos speak to my soul; I'd love to hear what you think! [tumblr](http://mightbewriting.tumblr.com/) is my happy place and I love interacting with people over there! Come join the fun!


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